


Gather at the River

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Case Fic, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Insecure Sherlock, Mary-neutral, No baby, Post S3, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the lot outside, John followed Sherlock a half-step behind. "Looks like we're not in Kansas anymore," he muttered.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Kansas? We're in Utah, John. We've never even set foot in Kansas."</i></p><p>---</p><p>Only Sherlock would take a case as an excuse to go on holiday with John. When Mrs. Hudson's niece asks for help investigating the suspicious death of her fiancé in America, our boys are off to the desert Southwest (even though the case is barely a five). Breathtaking scenery, mortal peril, snappy deductions, and a moment of reckoning in Sherlock & John's friendship is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trip

**Author's Note:**

> While on a recent vacation to the deserts of the Southwestern U.S., I realized that nearly all the things I love about this place would be things that Sherlock and John would absolutely hate. So I decided to boot them over there and make them deal with it. The setting is a fictionalized amalgamation of a few different national parks in the Utah area. The landscape and environment are really my OCs, and I humbly ask that you take the time to read the more descriptive passages. They set up the basis for many of the interactions between Our Heroes, S&J.
> 
> The other thing this work focuses on is how S&J learn to navigate their friendship post-S3. The story is Mary-neutral; she does not appear and is mentioned only twice. (I pretended the pregnancy/baby doesn't exist, though, because I can't wrap my brain around that.) I hope you enjoy some thrills, deductions, and a massive heaping of fluff at the end!

The land stretched in all directions, flat and covered with scraggled, isolated tufts of vegetation. Dark ridgelines ran along the distant horizons, holding the edges of the overturned bowl of sky. He had never encountered a sky like this before: perfect blue and cloudless, it had majesty like mountains and drew his gaze ever upwards. It was a constant struggle for John to remain focused on the long, straight road when he wanted simply to take in the vast landscape all around him.

As they drove, the road began to wind around ridges and plateaus. Red, orange, and white stripes painted the cliff faces, which were eroding in mesmerizing fractals of sharp promontories and V'ed gullies.

In the passenger seat, Sherlock was glued to his mobile. John glanced in his direction every few minutes. He knew better than to say anything but couldn't help feeling a bit incredulous that Sherlock didn't show any interest in the alien terrain surrounding them.

After two hours of silent driving, Sherlock sighed and dropped his phone. "Pull over," he said.

"Pull over here? On the highway?"

"Hardly a highway." Sherlock had a point--the road was mostly a deserted stretch of two-lane blacktop with a healthy speed limit. More and more intersections connected the route to dirt trackways rather than paved roads. "We've finally gone out of mobile range. I'll drive; you can gawk."

"What have you been doing this whole time?" John asked as he slowed to a stop.

"Research. Reading local newspapers, such as they are. Tracking recent weather. Gathering useful information."

"Mm." John nodded and opened his door to switch sides. Heat slapped his face like a physical force. "God, it must be forty degrees out here!"

"One hundred and one, Fahrenheit," Sherlock responded, indicating the car display proclaiming the outside temperature. He conceded to the conditions by removing his suit jacket as he exited the car.

Once back on their way, John didn't hide his smirk as he noted Sherlock's own difficulty in keeping his eyes on the road. Sherlock resolutely avoided so much as a glance in John's direction. They drove on.

\---

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, please, come in."

The two men were standing in the lobby at their destination--the Coconino National Park ranger headquarters near Typhon, Utah, in the United States--where they were greeted by a broad, stocky woman in her early forties with sharp brown eyes and thin lips drawn back in a tight smile. She beckoned them into her office and extended her hand to each in turn. "Jane Gallway. Law Enforcement Ranger here at Coconino. Katie said we could expect you today. So what is it you'd like to know about the death of Andy Simmons?"

"We'd like full access to all the materials associated with the crime scene," Sherlock stated, settling into the chair in front of Jane's desk. Lacking other options, John remained standing by his side.

Jane nodded, considering, and moved to take her own seat. "Well, Katie did say she wanted a second opinion. Though I must say, a private detective from England wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

"Consulting."

"I'm sorry?"

"Consulting detective, not private."

"Of course," Jane said, punctuating the statement with a quizzical look. "I didn't work this case personally, but I can pull the records. You'll want the coroner's report and the witness statements from the hikers who discovered Andy's body. I can get you the officers' report and photographs from the scene, as well."

"Thank you, but we did not come all this way simply to read through your paperwork. I need to see the body, the rope, the note, the location where Simmons was found."

Jane pursed her lips. "The body will be a bit difficult, as I understand he was sent to the crematorium yesterday. Parents' wishes."

"Idiots!" Sherlock spat, leaning forward. "How can I investigate his murder if they've done away with his body?"

John pointedly cleared his throat. Sherlock sat back in his chair.

"Andy's parents are devastated by their son's suicide, and I believe they wanted to make all the arrangements as soon as possible." Jane's tone was measured. Her earlier forward welcome had retreated, as though she were reconsidering the advisability of cooperating with these men, Katie's request or no.

"Fine, then. The rope? You still have it? And we can access the scene of the crime?"

"Yes... the rope was sent to evidence storage in town, a few hours' drive from here. I can have it delivered by tomorrow afternoon for you to inspect. With supervision, naturally," she said, with meaning.

"Excellent." --here, John coughed again-- "Ah, I mean, thank you. That would be most helpful. And the tree where the body was found?"

"We can leave for the ridge at seven tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow _morning_?" Sherlock sat up straight and scoffed. "It's three in the afternoon! What could possibly be so important that I must wait to see the crime scene until tomorrow _morning_?"

Jane furrowed her brow. "You do realize where you are, yes? Where the body was actually found?"

"Yes, apparently, I'm in a country with a park service so bureaucratic and hidebound it is willing to let valuable evidence wash away, exposed to the elements, rather than lift a finger to do something now, at _three_ in the _afternoon_."

John rubbed his temples and let out a quiet sigh. Of course, with the long flight and time change, his body was telling him it was actually due for bed. He wouldn't mind getting a fresh start in the morning--nevermind that the crime scene was a week old at this point, anyway--and he'd really been hoping to get through this first meeting without having to clean up any damage from Hurricane Sherlock. He squared up to Jane.

"No, ma'am, the morning will be fine. Sorry. Excuse us, please, we're a bit touchy after being on a plane all day."

"Mr. Holmes." Jane's tone was firm. She stood and turned towards a large topographic map hanging on the wall behind her. "We are located here" -- she pointed -- "at park headquarters. The body was found here" -- another gesture -- "on Phantom Ridge. If you'd like to leave today, please, be my guest. Just take your sedan up this two-track, here, and you'll be at the trailhead in forty-five minutes, assuming you don't break an axel. From there it's only about a four-hour hike in. The sun sets at 8:30, though, so I suggest you bring a flashlight."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond that he certainly would, thank you very much, but was stopped short by John's hand on his arm.

"Right, thank you, the morning then," John cut in. "We didn't quite understand the circumstances."

"Did you bring other shoes?" Jane asked, still focused on Sherlock. "Because I think you'll find the trails aren't very kind to fine leather." Sherlock said nothing, caught without a rejoinder, but still appearing as the very picture of indignation. Very determinedly, he avoided shifting his feet.

"Ms. Gallway, please," John tried again. "Sorry. You've made the situation quite clear, and we've not come prepared. We'll return in the morning. Do you think we could borrow some kit?"

Jane finally turned her attention his way. "I'm only doing this as a favor to Katie. The investigation's finished. She just won't believe that he could have taken his own life. I thought that bringing in an investigator of her choosing would confirm Andy's suicide and help her accept the truth so she could begin the process of grieving. I'll get you some 'kit,' as you call it, and I'll take you to the ridge tomorrow, and you will respect this park and its rangers." Here she locked eyes with Sherlock. "Is that understood?"

Sherlock appeared to withdraw, his features becoming smooth as porcelain. John gave him a wary look, suspicious of any plotting, and nudged his shoulder.

"Perfectly," Sherlock finally replied. He withdrew a piece of blank paper and a pen from his pockets and scribbled down some information. "Our shoe and clothing sizes. Good afternoon." He nodded, then stood and turned to stride out the door.

\---

In the lot outside John followed Sherlock a half-step behind. "Looks like we're not in Kansas anymore," he muttered.

"Kansas? We're in Utah, John. We've never even set foot in Kansas."

"Nevermind," John said, a ghost of a grin crossing his face. "Just remember: it's not the Met. They don't know us, they don't have any reason to cooperate with us. A little deference will probably go a long way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, _mum_. I'll play nice with the woolly woodsmen."

Despite himself, John chuckled. "So what's all this, then? You must have known the official investigation's finished. What did they miss?"

"It was murder, of course," Sherlock replied. He pulled a bundle of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket and stopped, turning to show them to John. "Andy Simmons was clearly left-handed. In this photo you can see he wears his baseball glove on his right. The knot on the noose, however," -- here he flipped to another page -- "is coiled in a manner more consistent with someone who is dominantly right-handed. Then there's the manner of death: hanging. Who would trek out into the wilderness to hang themselves in a ditch? Park suicides in the U.S. are more commonly jumpers or self-inflicted gunshot wounds. Look at this place; it's full of precipices he could have leapt from. The hanging doesn't fit. The facts don't add up."

"And how about these scratches there, on his face?" John took the photo of Simmons hanging from the tree out of Sherlock's hands. His jaw and neck bore many striated marks, and in some places the skin had been broken. "This looks like he was attacked."

"Not necessarily. Many suicide survivors report a last-minute change of heart after doing the deed; the scratches could conceivably be a final, desperate attempt to free himself from the rope. That was the 'official' conclusion, at any rate."

John shuddered a bit at the mental image of the man clawing at his face, struggling for release. "A permanent solution to a temporary problem," he intoned.

"What is?"

"Offing yourself. I mean, just think of all the things we'd have missed if--" He stopped short. Though his eyes were fixed on the papers in his hands, he could feel the weight of Sherlock's full attention, turned his way.

"If?"

"No, you know what, forget it." John shook his head. He thrust the papers back into Sherlock's hands and cleared his throat. "Just... stay away from tall ledges, will you? Anyway, I see why you think this is a murder and all, but this hardly seems like it rates more than about a five. You couldn't have solved this from the flat?"

"Oh, this is just... passing the time. You know. Thought I might try getting away from it all. Mycroft can hardly have cameras in all the trees 'round here." Sherlock busied himself by stuffing the papers back in his pocket.

John smiled and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Well, you know I care for Mrs. Hudson, too, so let's see if we can bring her niece some peace of mind, shall we?"

\---

John snored. Not loudly, mind; it was really just an extra rasp on the exhale from the deeply relaxed tissue in his mouth and throat. His posture in sleep was somehow compact but not too drawn-in. It was, Sherlock thought, like the somnolent version of a stance "at-ease."

Sherlock lay on his back in his own bed on the other side of the motel room. His eyes were closed. He listened. He had been in this position more or less since they had arrived earlier, appearing to have adopted his "thinking" pose. John, being familiar, had proceeded to ignore him and busied himself with unpacking, organizing, and preparing for bed. He had booted up his laptop to send a quick message to Mary and idly read through a handful of utterly forgettable news stories before his drooping eyes got the better of him and he packed it all in for sleep.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he'd said. "Try to get a bit of rest, alright? Remember the time change."

Sherlock had hummed a non-committal reply, and then John was lost to the world. Still, Sherlock listened. He listened, as he had been the entire time. He'd sorted the case as best he could without more data and had settled in to observe.

In the past year, he, John, and Mary had reached something of an equilibrium in their interactions. John met him regularly for cases and sometimes dragged him out for dinner, or stopped by Baker Street to see Mrs. Hudson and drop off a loaf of Mary's homemade bread. Rarely, Sherlock would appear at John and Mary's home, but he never stayed long and always had some reason to be passing through.

Sometimes, the end of a case would find Sherlock and John back at Baker Street. John was still keeping up his blog, so he'd take time to make some notes on their latest escapades and wind down with idle chatter. Then, inevitably, he'd leave to go home.

It was those nights that Sherlock both treasured and dreaded the most. Dreaded, because after John left, all that remained was silence. Everything was just so still. Before the Fall, Sherlock would have said he valued a silent space best--good for brain work as it was--but since his return he'd found that wasn't quite true. John's muttering, his creaking about, the sounds of his daily living had come to signify so much without Sherlock realizing it: home, comfort, safety, understanding. Each noise was a tiny anchor holding Sherlock to the here and now.

These days, the two might go for weeks without seeing one another, if Sherlock was without a case and John's surgery was busy. The double blow of boredom and his friend's absence was sometimes nearly more than Sherlock could bear. But what could he do? Have John and Mary for tea? An absurd notion. No, he and John were bound by the Work. Those domestic touches had been an unexpected gift during their time as flatmates, but they were beyond Sherlock's reach now.

Except not _right_ now. When Mrs. Hudson had tearfully ascended the stairs to flat B and told Sherlock about her niece Katie's fiancé and his awful death in America, Sherlock had taken the case without hesitation. It was fortunate that there were suspicious circumstances surrounding the death, but secretly (so secretly, he hardly admitted it to himself) he'd jumped at the thought that John might come, too, and then it would be the two of them together, doing what they were meant to do. And if that silent void in Sherlock's nights were filled for a time while they shared a room in a cheap motel with a rattling air conditioner and threadbare sheets, well, that was a good thing too.

In and out. In and out. John's breath carried Sherlock off to sleep.


	2. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events depicted in this chapter are _not_ exaggerated for dramatic effect. The desert is really just that crazy.

_This may be more than a bit ridiculous,_ Sherlock thought. But in his stubbornness he would see it through.

Earlier that morning, he and John had decked themselves out in borrowed t-shirts and hiking boots and slung Jane's proffered rucksacks on their backs. They headed off to find the crime scene. Currently, they were slogging along a rocky trail, switchbacking their way up a steep canyon face in the backcountry of Coconino National Park.

Sherlock's feet hurt. The unfamiliar footwear rubbed and pinched. He said nothing, however, unsure how to approach the prickly ranger with the issue and still maintain an aura of competence and mystery. And then there was the _ridiculous_ cap he'd had to stuff his hair into; he'd tried getting along without it, but found he needed the brim to shield his eyes from the sun's merciless glare. He was only thankful John did not seem to share Lestrade's penchant for recording video of his more humiliating circumstances. He didn't even want to think about the awkwardness of the process that had been applying sunscreen.

The hike was unbelievably tedious. Yes, the soaring rock faces were quite magnificent--even he could appreciate that--but he hardly understood what motivated the common man to haul himself up thousands of feet on foot just to see them from a slightly different angle above.

The morning had started off with a chill in the air, but by this time it was well and truly hot. Sherlock detested the way his sweat caused his garments to cling and rub against his skin. And there--ah!--another stabbing cramp in his calves made him swear under his breath. It was the interminable upward motion, he was sure. Unnatural. How long would it be before they got there?

John huffed and puffed a few paces ahead. Sherlock deduced his shortness of breath likely came from difficulty acclimatizing to the altitude (currently around 1500 m), as he knew his companion was hardly out of shape. John was stoic, of course, and if the altitude was a real problem or if his own boots were hurting him it didn't show in his stride. He had even managed to make his cap look... not stupid, somehow. Must be a soldier thing.

Jane led the two along the way. Eventually, they topped out on the canyon rim and she stopped short, motioning for them to sit and take a break.

John settled down quickly and pulled a water bottle from his pack, unscrewing the lid and guzzling the liquid gratefully. Sherlock moved to do the same. He was surprised at how greedily his mouth accepted the water, but stopped himself after only a few mouthfuls when a fluttering sensation arose in his stomach. What now? Had he picked up an illness on the flight? It just wouldn't do to become sick here or at the crime scene. Perhaps keeping an empty stomach would keep the feelings at bay. He put his water away. He'd gone without for much longer than this hike, anyway.

After their rest, the trio continued on more level ground, winding among wind-sculpted rock formations and occasional stands of juniper and piñon pine. Awhile later they reached more topography. Having to haul himself upwards once again, Sherlock could barely contain his relief when Jane led them out onto a ridgeline and finally announced, "We're here."

Phantom Ridge was a local high point, though in the near distance they could see the terrain begin its upward steps once again. Oddly enough, there was more vegetation at this elevation than there had been below. Ponderosa pine were scattered among tiny patches of dusty soil tucked against bare, exposed rock. In many places the trees seemed to spring directly from the rock edifice itself. Nothing moved. No other animals were out in the midday heat.

"Where was he, exactly?" John asked.

She pointed to a pine tree overhanging a moderately-sized ravine that had incised a part of the ridge. "He was hanging from that tree, dangling down over the edge."

Sherlock was off like a shot, prowling about the tree and searching for a pathway to take him down into the ravine.

"Sherlock!" John called. "Hold on, will you? How about a little lunch first, and some water?"

"Not now, John," Sherlock snapped.

"You need to eat something. We've been on the move for hours and even you need to fill up when it's this bloody hot outside."

"Not now! I need to work!"

"Look here! If you don't get some food and water into you, I'll-- I'll-- well, I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it."

"I don't need it, or your nagging. I'm not even sweating! I'm fine!"

John's exasperation disappeared in an instant, replaced by laser focus and his critical doctor's mind. "Sherlock. You were sweating earlier, on the hike in. How long have you been like this?"

Sherlock merely waved one hand about while squeezing his eyes shut and massaging the bridge of his nose.

"And you have a headache, then. Any nausea?" A nod. "Have you been having muscle cramps?" Another nod.

John sucked in his breath and turned to Jane. "Did you bring salt tabs in your first aid kit?"

"And extra water," she replied. "I'm on it."

"Sherlock." John approached him and placed his hands on the taller man's shoulders. "You're not fine. You've got heat stroke, or nearly. This is serious. I need you to listen to what I say. Do you think you can follow my directions?"

"Yes--" The rebellion had left his voice.

"Alright. Your'e going to sit down here, and take off your shirt." Sherlock obliged. John balled up the garment and soaked it liberally with water from his own bottle, then wrung the t-shirt out. "Put this back on again. The evaporation will help to cool you down."

He turned to Jane and took the salt tabs she'd pulled from her bag. "Now swallow these, quickly, and keep taking small sips of water. You're severely dehydrated and your sodium levels are off, because you've sweated it all away."

While Sherlock slowly followed John's commands, John looked to Jane. "What are our options here? He needs medical attention as soon as possible. I can't tell how bad this is without bloodwork and a urinalysis. He'll probably recover on his own with proper rest, but there's a chance of serious organ damage or worse if it continues to progress."

"As long as he can walk or crawl under his own power, we hike out," Jane replied. "We're in the backcountry. It's not like we took the scenic route to get here on purpose. Failing that, you can hunker down with him while I hike back into radio range and call the search and rescue helicopter. With that scenario, we're looking at approximately four to five hours--"

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock retching. He vomited water and bile onto the ground.

"Oh, shit." John reached for his rucksack and pulled out the knit cap he'd been wearing earlier that morning. Dousing it with water, he used it to mop at Sherlock's brow. A flush had begun to bloom across the younger man's pale features. "Too much too fast. Alright, there. You have to drink, but slowly. Just wet your lips a little at a time. I'll get another salt tab. You can hold it in your cheek and let it dissolve there instead of ingesting it whole."

"I've seen lots of heat illnesses working out here, as I'm sure you can imagine," Jane said while John helped Sherlock with the salt and water. "But he's been hit really hard, and fast. Does he have a medical condition?"

"Only terminal pigheadedness," John replied. "He's often dehydrated and underfed at baseline. Add international travel, physical exertion, the altitude and this bloody heat like a smack in the face, and well, here we are." He sighed. "I should have known. I should have been watching him for this, watching to make sure he was drinking enough this morning."

"--not my mother--" Sherlock mumbled between sips from his bottle. His eyes were closed, but John could imagine the indignation hiding just behind those lids. " 'm going to... be... fine." Another sip. "Just miscalculated," he finished, lamely.

"Right," John stated. "Well, you heard the lady. We need to get you out of here, and you're going to have to walk. Up we get, then." He held out his hands and Sherlock grabbed them with his own. 

He was upright in a moment; his shorter companions' faces were turned up towards him, expectantly. He opened his mouth to say something haughty and reassuring, but found suddenly he needed to double over to expel the contents of his stomach once again. Firm hands helped guide him back to the ground.

"I suppose we'll be needing that helicopter, then."

\---

Jane had left them after providing some final information and instructions. They had her first aid kit and nearly all her water, her map, and her GPS. She had spread out a reflective emergency space blanket nearby as a visual beacon for the flight crew and helped set Sherlock up behind a rock and under a small pine tree, where he would be shielded from the sand and dirt that would be kicked up by the wind from the helicopter's rotors. She had warned them to stay out of the ravine where Andy Simmons had been found, however. Late afternoon storm cells were sweeping through the area and weather up canyon could send down a flash flood that would take them out in the blink of an eye.

John was focusing hard on being both patient and calm. Now that he wasn't trying to move about, Sherlock had been able to keep some water down. He wasn't getting any better, but he wasn't getting any worse; he was just resting, with eyes closed and breathing steady. John had tried talking with Sherlock, but the one-sided conversation quickly faltered and died. Beyond coaxing the man to continue taking sips of water, there was nothing more that John could do. His impotence in the situation filled him with a quiet rage. Sherlock was not going to lose his kidneys or his liver because of the Utah heat, damn it all! He hadn't outsmarted London's most notorious criminals and survived two years of clandestine operations overseas (not to mention a bloody gunshot wound to the chest, thanks) to end up in the high desert needing an organ transplant or... worse.

The helicopter just had to arrive soon.

John looked about. The scenery that had fascinated him only two days before he now found hateful. Bleached, dry rock; pitiful struggling plants; no animals in sight; no sound but from the occasional rush of wind. Above them, the sun was the only thing that moved. The bright orb blazed on in its slow transit across the sky. There were no clouds to obscure its rays. The scattered ponderosas offered the only shade in this desolate, desperate place.

A sudden and overwhelming need to _move_ overcame John's paralyzed, angry mind. With a quick word to tell Sherlock he'd be right back, John leapt up and stalked off towards... something. Nothing. He just needed to move. Move!

After a minute, he found he was nearing the edge of the ridge they'd been camped out on. He looked up and out, then swallowed uneasily upon taking in the scene ahead.

The ridgeline dropped away to reveal vast plains stretching towards distant landforms. Above, an entire storm cell was contained within the sky. A pile of clouds with dark underbellies arranged themselves like a floating mountain, its edges defined and visible on all sides. Clear blue clapped abruptly against the roiled gray. The space beneath the clouds appeared to have been hung with gauzy curtains that obscured the view beyond; after a moment, John realized that this haze must be the rain. As he continued to stare, stabs of lightening pricked the ground. The matching low rumbles were not far behind.

Where he stood on the ridge, the air was hot and nearly still. It made for an oppressive, heavy feeling, and the sensation of being on the edge of _something_ but not knowing what would happen, or when. John turned to go back to Sherlock's side. All they could do was wait.

\---

The first thing to change was the wind. Previously rare and whisper-faint, steadier gusts began to whistle by. After one particularly strong puff, Sherlock shivered slightly in his wet clothes. John eyed him, unsure whether that reaction meant good things or bad.

He leaned in to grab Sherlock's wrist. As he was counting the beats of Sherlock's pulse and watching the rate of his breathing, John was suddenly distracted by the appearance of small dark spots on the rock behind his head. In the same instant he felt the sting of raindrops hitting his own skin. He looked up.

The storm from the plains had come upon them. The leading edge of dark clouds was moving smoothly, inexorably on, over their heads. With another burst of wind, the temperature dropped by tens of degrees and the rain began to come down, hard. Its arrival was as abrupt as though someone had turned on a tap. The hiss and sizzle assaulted John's ears and the earthiness of petrichor filled his nose. Remembering the lightening he'd seen while standing on the edge of the ridge, he grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and gave the man a small shake.

"Come on, mate, we've got to move."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and muzzily took in the situation at hand. He allowed John to pull him to his feet and support him as they distanced themselves from the tree. Once a haven from the sun, the tree was now a dangerous lightening rod on this high, exposed ridgeline. John deposited Sherlock on the ground and stood, mind whirling.

They were both soaked through from the pelting rain. Sherlock began to tremble. Though so recently overheated, his highly-taxed body couldn't cope with the sudden change of conditions and reacted violently to the wet and cold. John had seen plastic ponchos packed away in the rucksacks Jane had prepared for them; they might block more rain, but would provide no warmth.

He raced to the packs and plucked the ponchos out anyway. Returning, he ripped open one package and draped it over Sherlock's huddled form. Settling down behind him, John slipped his own poncho on, then reached forward and drew Sherlock in against his chest.

Thunder boomed. Wind howled. John's teeth rattled in his head, though from sympathetic vibration or chill or fear he could not say. He closed his eyes and drew his friend in tighter. His world was reduced to the feeling of lashing droplets and bony shoulder blades. He began to shiver, as well, and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's wet hair. Babbling words began to pour from his lips but they were consumed in a fresh round of thunderclaps, so close John could feel them in his bones.

Then, a rattling noise and a painful new sensation: gravel-sized hailstones began dropping from the sky. John moved to cover more of Sherlock's body with his own and suddenly began to laugh and shout.

"Oh is that all, then? What else you going to throw at us? Is that the best you've got?"

The hail stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The driving rain continued, however, and as John looked out he could see that it had begun to collect and flow within barely-perceptible channels on the desert floor. The channels drained into the ravine Jane had warned them away from only a couple of hours before. He watched as the channels' intricate, dendritic forms sprang to life and swept light debris away, remodeling what had so recently seemed a static and unchanging rocky surface.

And still the storm raged on. The color of light had turned a lurid yellow-green and all traces of blue sky had been overtaken by the angry gray. There was no beginning or end in sight; no concept of whether it had existed for hours or merely minutes. John found he was hypnotized by the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest in his arms and he allowed himself to be lost in the movement battling defiantly against the wind and rain.

A rumbling noise quite unlike the omnipresent thunder pierced his consciousness all at once. It sounded like heavy vehicles on a nearby street, or a locomotive engine coming towards a station. As the noise grew in volume and intensity, John picked up his head to search about for the source.

The ravine. The sound was bouncing down the walls of the ravine, coming from somewhere upstream. A moment later, he saw why.

A mass of woody debris including pieces of full-sized tree trunks suddenly burst into view, filling up the channel nearly to the top. The wall of wood heralded a roiling muddy flood that subsumed everything in its path. It carried rocks and even boulders that smashed against the channel walls and sent vibrations through the solid ground. The flow looked like wet, living concrete sluicing downstream. Chunks of debris arrived in pulses and the flood climbed higher and higher up the ravine's steep walls.

The flood's smashing roar was utterly deafening. It overwhelmed all John's senses, from the unbelievable sight down to the rattling that jarred him on the ground. It even carried its own scent: rotting wood and sharp pine and decaying animals unearthed by the onslaught each contributed their own flavor to the air around.

John's face turned white and his body stilled completely. _Is that the best you've got?_ , his thoughts echoed.

_Please, God, let us live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of experiencing a flash flood is based on a survivor's account, Craig Childs's "Fear of God" in the _Grand Canyon Reader_.
> 
> This [ video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORZQUlk8vxg) shows a nice opening shot of a summer storm in Utah, and at 1:36 a mini version of what John saw coming down the ravine.


	3. The Case

Pulse, steady. O2 sats, up. The black and white monitor that displayed Sherlock's vitals was a small comfort to John as he sat in a chair by Sherlock's hospital bed. 

The rescue helicopter had come on the heels of the departing storm. John had never been so glad to see another human in all his life. Once inside, he'd practically collapsed while the rescuers buzzed about, probing the still form of his sick friend. One woman had noticed John in the back and threw him some dry track suit bottoms and a shirt. Though overly large on his frame, these were the clothes he was wearing now, waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

He knew the man was simply asleep. He was actually resting after their long ordeal. Lab results had shown that Sherlock's kidneys had suffered some damage from severe dehydration, but would recover entirely with time. Now, he was just receiving saline drips to replenish his lost stores of electrolytes and water.

Sherlock stirred and his eyes blinked open. "Murder, John," he breathed, his gaze lighting upon his friend's face. "Definitely not suicide."

Despite himself, John snorted a laugh. "Good morning to you too, sunshine," he said.

"I can prove it. Just think. The tree where the rope was hung. How could he have gotten himself suspended off the ground? There was nothing for him to stand on in the ravine below. His neck wasn't broken; he didn't jump from the rim above. He must have been placed there. It's the only explanation that fits all the facts!"

"That'll be a bit hard to prove now that the crime scene has been blasted by a major flash flood," John countered. "The rocks and debris will be all different."

"You can see it in the photos, too; I just didn't make the connection until I saw the scene with my own eyes."

"Good job we got there in time, then," John said wryly. He sighed and cracked a smile. "Only you, Sherlock, would make a deduction that cracks open a murder case while delirious with heat stroke and half out of your mind."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied primly. "Now what about the rope?"

"Oh, no." John held up his hands. "You're not getting anywhere near that rope until your doctors release you, and I know for a fact that you have at least one more bag of saline to go. Settle down."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when a knock sounded at the door. John rose to answer it. A young woman with an unkempt blonde ponytail stood in the hallway. Her face was creased with concern. "Dr. Watson?" she inquired.

"Call me John," he invited. "You are...?"

"Katie Hamilton, Andy's fiancee."

"Katie, hi. Please come in; Sherlock's just woken up."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Katie cried upon moving into the room. "I'm so, so sorry! Jane's told me what happened; she was beside herself with worry after the storm broke over you. We're so very glad you're all right."

"You were right to call me in," Sherlock stated, without greeting or preamble. "Your fiance was most certainly murdered. I'll need to ask you some questions now."

The young woman's breath caught in her throat. "He was... you're sure?" Her lip began to tremble.

John came up behind her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We found some evidence to suggest that another person was involved in Andy's death, yes. Sherlock would like to know more about Andy so he can continue to sort out the details. Is that okay?"

"Y-yes," Katie sniffed. She allowed John to guide her to the chair by the bedside.

"Keep it short, Sherlock," John admonished. "If you start to get worn out I'll have Katie come back another day."

Barely acknowledging John's directive, Sherlock launched in. "What reason did Andy have to be out on Phantom Ridge that night?"

"Well, we both work there, at Coconino. I'm an interpretive ranger and Andy cooks in the lodge. He took the job so he could go climbing and backpacking in the park on days off. We all go together, sometimes, a group of us, but Andy always liked to just get out there alone. It was just supposed to be a--a t-two d-day solo trip. When I saw him off, he just looked so... happy." Her face contorted with grief, but she did not cry.

"And yet he took drugs along for his solo traverse. Are you aware that solitary and secretive drug use is often an indicator of depression?"

"That's the problem! Andy never used drugs. When the investigators told me they found marijuana in his blood, that's when I knew something was wrong. He never touched the stuff, even though... well, even though there's not that much to do out here at night. You know. He said pot made him feel funny."

" _Did_ he," Sherlock murmured. "Interesting. Thank you. You may go now." He settled down on his back and closed his eyes.

"Oh!" Taken aback, Katie turned to John for understanding.

"We'll be in touch once we know more," John stated. "He should probably rest now, though."

"Of course," Katie recovered quickly. "Take my number," she said, reaching into her pocket and drawing out a slip of paper. "The manager let me into your room at the motel, and I brought you some clothes. I'll be taking you back once Mr. Holmes is ready to go."

"That's very kind, thanks." John gave her a warm smile. "Shouldn't be too long now."

The smile Katie gave in return was thin, and her movements quite slow. With her hand on the knob of the door, she faced John once more. "Thank you for believing me," she said quietly, before turning the knob to go.

\---

The rest of the afternoon, the two men played John's favorite game: entertain a grumpy consulting detective while preventing him from escaping to go investigate a crime. It was only when John's frustration had escalated to threats of five-point restraints that Sherlock resigned himself to pouting silently.

Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock was given the all-clear, with instructions to continue to rest and take it easy for the next couple of days. Katie came to collect them. Most of the two hour journey back to the park was spent in silence.

Just the idea that one _could_ live two-hours' drive from the nearest medical center--in a reputably civilized country, anyway--was an odd thought to John. He looked out the window at the passing landscape. Its strange beauty had been transformed, in his mind, into a warning sign: the bright reds like stripes on a delicate, poisonous caterpillar.

Never before had he encountered an enemy he couldn't hope to outmaneuver or, at the very least, outgun. All his skill, bravery, and even willpower had amounted to nothing in the face of nature's indiscriminate force. That he and Sherlock were sitting here today was nothing but the result of sheer, dumb luck.

He turned to look at his friend, passed out in the front passenger seat. What he wouldn't give to be sitting across from him in his chair at Baker Street. This case, John thought, couldn't be over soon enough.

\---

"You can come in, but I won't be a minute," Katie said as she pulled up to a long, low building that provided dormitory-style housing for park employees. "I just need to grab a few things, and then I can take you up to the station where you left your car yesterday."

Always one to gather more data, Sherlock was up and out the door before she'd even finished speaking. John followed at a more sedate pace after.

Inside the building, Katie showed them to a small common lounge area. Three young men were already seated on one long couch. The one in the middle cradled a guitar, while the one farthest from the door was leaning to pick up a pan of home-made brownies from the coffee table in front of them. The guitarist strummed absently at his instrument, clearly waiting for the pan to be passed down to him.

The room itself was dingy and cluttered. Papers, jackets, and empty food containers covered most surfaces; some spaces had been cleared by pushing the detritus aside in drifts. Three packs and a pile of climbing helmets, rope, and gloves leaned against one wall beneath a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, "Please pick up your mess! Your mother doesn't live here!", with a drawing of a daisy in the lower right-hand corner. Sherlock and John looked about with some unease, not wanting to be contaminated by anything they might touch.

"Er, sorry about the mess," Katie started. "Sherlock, John, this is Colin, Sam, and Deemo." Each waved or nodded in turn. "Guys, these are my aunt's... friends, from London. I'm showing them around while they visit. Don't scare them off, okay? I'll be right back."

"So you're the dopes they had to pick up off Phantom Ridge." The last one, Deemo, laughed after Katie left. "If you can't take the heat, you should stay out of the kitchen!" He giggled again, apparently pleased by his own sparkling wit.

"Indeed," Sherlock drawled. He dismissed the three of them with a look and sent his eyes roving about the room.

Sam, in the middle, jammed a loud, dissonant chord on his guitar. "Ow!" cried Colin, the one on the other side. "Dude, why don't you just play something real for once? Those weird noises suck."

John couldn't help but grin inwardly at his own nearly-identical thoughts regarding Sherlock's violin at times. He'd have to try that line out in the future, see what results it got.

"Fine," Sam groused. He reached for one more bite of brownie before launching into a rhythmic, twangy series of chords with the occasional melodic flourish thrown in. "In constant sorrow-oww all through his days!" he sang, the opening lines coming out in a wail.

The raw sound made John involuntarily pucker up his face. He wasn't sure this was much of an improvement. He and Sherlock made a hasty exit when Katie finally came back around.

"Got everything you needed, then?" John said to Katie as they walked out towards her car.

"Yes, I think so," Sherlock replied.

\---

It was after dark by the time the two men were able to get back to their motel. Even Sherlock conceded that viewing evidence from the crime scene would have to wait until the next day. They managed to acquire some rather abysmal Chinese take-out and consumed it quickly before retiring upstairs to bed.

Sherlock felt raw all over. What with dry skin, gritty eyes, an itchy scalp, and body aches, he commandeered the shower without a second thought. Once under the running water, he realized belatedly that John might have needed something from the bathroom first. Oh well. He could wait.

This case--it still merited barely a five on the evidence, by the way--was not at all going the way he'd hoped. He'd been a complete fool. What had John said? Dehydrated at baseline, together with international travel, physical exertion, the altitude and "this bloody heat...." He should have anticipated the dangers and taken preventative actions accordingly. He just wasn't _used_ to thinking about his body that way. His transport had never failed him like this before.

If you could say one thing about America, its buildings had good, strong water pressure and quite adequate heat. Sherlock let the shower drum down on his scalp and his back while he stood, lost in thought.

He didn't remember much of the storm. He recalled how his body had been confused: flipping between feeling bloated and hazy and tense and chilled. He'd been aware of John's presence, a shield from the weather and a pair of arms around his chest, but he couldn't reconstruct a chain of events or describe much beyond that. If he thought about it much longer he thought he might actually begin to feel humiliated. "The dopes," indeed. John's small smile upon hearing Sherlock's deductions after waking was the only saving grace in the whole ordeal.

And John had been affected, he could tell. His friend, the self-styled protector, had been overwhelmed and powerless in Sherlock's moment of need. Sherlock cursed himself at getting them into that ridiculous situation, and vowed to John that'd he'd be better in the future, thanking him for his dedication and steadfast care.

It wasn't until later that night, as John lay snoring, that Sherlock realized that he'd said none of this out loud.

\---

"The note first."

Jane handed Sherlock a ripped piece of notebook paper tucked into a plastic evidence bag. The words "I'm sorry" were scrawled on it in pencil, straying beyond the ruled lines.

Sherlock extracted it from the bag carefully and held it up for inspection. "Male, left-handed, blunt graphite pencil (hardness 2B) on a cheap, narrow-ruled notebook page. He wrote it while seated, and in a hurry." Returning the paper to the evidence bag, he again turned to Jane. "This is consistent with my knowledge of Andy Simmons's habitus. Now, the rope."

It was barely eight-thirty in the morning. Jane had been mostly quiet and extremely accommodating since they'd arrived at her office. _Probably feeling guilt at being unable to send help before the storm arrived,_ Sherlock surmised. _Ridiculous, but her reaction is at least useful._

She laid out the rope in a tray on the table. With a snap, Sherlock produced his pocket magnifier and began tracing its length, inch by inch. John looked on, standing at the table by Sherlock's side.

"Nylon. New, hardly used. Slick, and unlikely to retain much trace evidence." He continued his examination. "Skin and blood here, presumably Simmons's; it's the right position for his facial and neck wounds. Bits of wood, all along here, likely a match for the gallows tree. And... oh!"

He fell silent, flicking back and forth between two areas on either end of the rope. When he straightened, a cheshire grin had enveloped his face. "Come on, John. We need to find the laundry." He whirled around and made to depart, but Jane moved in, blocking his path.

"Hold your horses," she warned, raising a hand. "What did you find? And why do you need to do laundry?"

He turned to John, his lips forming a perfect moue to protest that this woman was spoiling his fun. _Not the Met, remember,_ John's answering look managed to say.

Sherlock heaved an exaggerated sigh. "If I must," he muttered theatrically. "Here, look here. What do you see?"

"Blood..." Jane began.

"And dirt," John finished.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, pleased. This comment did not lead to any immediate revelations in his companions' minds. "Think, John." he prompted. "The nylon is slick and the dirt could only have stuck once it had been wet with blood."

"But... how could dirt have got in the blood, if Simmons scratched his face after he was already hanging from the tree?" John mused.

"Precisely. And now here," Sherlock gestured to the other end of the rope. "Blue fibers embedded in the nylon. Faux suede, unless I miss my guess. From that, we've learned all we need to know."

"Which is...?" Jane's patience was not nearly as well-developed as John's.

"Again, the rope is slick. These fibers could only have become stuck if they'd been rubbed against the rope with great force, if someone had yanked or pulled a heavy load that made their hands slip. We also previously noted the addition of dirt to the rope after the presence of blood. Add in the wood splinters, and we have a timeline."

The detective began to pace the room, gesticulating to illustrate each step in the narrative. "Someone holding the rope pulled, hard, on a heavy load. The rope was running over the branch of a tree: we can tell because the tree splintered and embedded bits of wood into the rope along a significant length, equal to the distance of the rope our culprit pulled. If we believe the load was Simmons's body, we can infer that he scratched at his face and neck while suspended in the air, bloodying the rope. Then,"--here he crouched down to the ground--"his body was lowered, placed in the dirt. Our culprit had to change positions before hauling up the rope again and tying it off to the tree."

"Fantastic," John beamed.

"And!" Sherlock continued preemptively, "Last night, in the dormitory common area, I recall seeing a pair of fingerless, blue-suede gloves in the pile of climbing equipment belonging to our three pot-head pals." _Hence the need for the laundry; he and John could hardly break into rooms to conduct a search without a bit of a costume change first._

"That's... wow," Jane stuttered. "Wow. Well. I guess I'll call in a request for a warrant."

"Oh. Yes. Good." _Damn._

Sherlock turned to face his friend. "John, go find Katie. Ask her to tell you all that she can about the three men we met last night. I'll search rooms with Jane once the warrant comes through."

"Right." John gave a crisp nod, and made to split off.

\---

Deemo's room was first. The most damning thing they found was a mountain of cola cans and, of course, his drug stash. (Sherlock uncovered it first and pocketed it before Jane could see; no sense in diverting their attention with a useless possession charge. He'd return the goods later.)

Colin was next in line. His living area was spartan and they cleared it in no time. Jane was straightening up after one final sweep, about to turn and go, when the door opened and Colin himself appeared. Wrapped in a towel and carrying a caddy with shampoo and soap, he had clearly been having a shower while Jane and Sherlock had been searching through his things.

"What--" he started.

"Stupid!" Sherlock snapped at himself. "In accommodations like this, lack of toiletries or towel, work attire still hanging in the closet. Shower. Obvious."

"What the hell is going on?" Colin spouted after that. He stood up straighter and tried to project as much dignity as one could while mostly naked and damp.

Jane retrieved the warrant and held it up for Colin to inspect. "We are searching for material evidence connected to an ongoing investigation, and had reason to believe it might be in your possession," she said. "You're clear. We were just about to go."

"Wait, you're that man we met in the lounge the other night," Colin said, turning to Sherlock. "Is this about Andy being murdered? I had nothing to do with it, it wasn't me I swear!"

"Of course it wasn't you, didn't you just hear her--" Sherlock arrested himself mid-scoff as a realization dawned. "What you just said. 'Andy being murdered.' We indicated nothing of the sort and yet you jumped to that conclusion. You may not have done it, but you have suspicions about the person who did."

Colin tightened his grip on his towel and bit his lip, saying nothing. "Come on, Colin, don't make me say it." Jane sounded annoyed.

"Say what?" Sherlock asked.

"You know. 'We can do this here, or...'"

"--'down at the station.'" Right. Tedious.

Colin stepped further into the room and turned to close the door. He took a deep breath. "It's S-Sam," he started. "He told everybody that he was leaving to go visit his family the weekend Andy died. The night before, though, I saw him getting his gear together and figured he'd just decided to go on a trip instead. The funny thing was, his car was gone from the employee lot the next morning, and I thought I saw it in a corner of a visitors' lot later that day." Another deep breath. "Everyone knows Andy and Sam didn't get along. And I figured, what else would you be here investigating, except for Andy? That's why I said 'murdered.' They don't fly people in from England to look for drugs."

"Thank you, Colin," said Jane. "You and I can talk more later. We'll let you go now."

They entered Sam's room to serve the final warrant. It was the work of a moment to locate Sam's climbing bag, and inside it, a pair of fingerless, blue sueded gloves.

\---

Katie and John sat across from one another in a quiet corner of the canteen.

"The three men we met last night," John ventured. "Did any of them have a history with you or with Andy?"

"Before this summer? Not directly, no. We're all seasonals, so we're practically each other's family while we're here. With Sam, though... his older brother and Andy used to be best friends when they were kids. They met up a couple of years ago to do some big wall climbing, and there was an accident. Andy... he dislodged a chockstone as he was moving for a hold. It hit Sam's brother straight on.

"He almost died. It might have been better if he had. He's hooked up to all kinds of tubes and a ventilator; his mother quit her job because he needs care around the clock. Andy used to go visit, sometimes, but there wasn't much point because his mind is just... gone.

"That's the real reason Andy always went out alone. He never got over what happened and didn't want to risk hurting someone else again. Then this summer, with Sam... Andy tried reaching out to him, you know, but Sam wanted nothing to do with it. He told Andy to stay away and said he'd wrecked his family enough already. They haven't--hadn't spoken since," Katie finished.

John had been nodding along, and now bent his head to complete his notes on Katie's story.

"Did Sam kill Andy?" Katie asked softly.

"We have reason to believe that he or one of the others might possess an item that could match trace evidence found at the scene of the crime." John dissembled, though after that story he was sure he knew what Sherlock and Jane would find.

"Their poor mother," Katie sighed. "She'll have lost both her sons, now. That poor, poor woman."

John continued writing, and kept his head down.

\---

"I'd ask you where you were the night Andy Simmons died, but that would be redundant, as I already know."

Sherlock and Jane sat across from Sam Higgins and a bland, suited lawyer in a small, windowless room inside the ranger station. Sam remained silent. Sherlock took that as his cue.

"The day before, you told your coworkers you were returning home to visit your family, but in reality you did nothing of the sort. You moved your car from the employee lot to the visitors' side early the next morning to help maintain the ruse. Then you snuck away to watch and wait for Andy, to see where he might go.

"You followed him as he left for his trip on foot. Rather than driving to the trailhead the investigation used to access the ridge, Andy used a connecting trail that comes right into this area here. Fancied a longer walk, I suppose. You approached him sometime during the day, pretending to 'accidentally' stumble across him on your own journey out.

"Seeming to respond to his overtures from earlier in the summer, you acted like you'd had a change of heart and wanted to make amends. You continued your charade until it was time to stop for the night, and as a gesture of friendship, offered him some of your food. That food included a marijuana-laced brownie.

"You must have known about his aberrant reaction to the drug from his longtime friendship with your older brother. Andy didn't indulge like the rest of the workers here because it pushed him deep into a state of paranoia, depression, and fear. You took advantage of his compromised mind to take him back to the day your brother was injured. You forced him to write out an apology that would resemble a suicide note--just a simple, 'I'm sorry'--and in his altered state he did not notice the noose you slipped around his neck until it was too late. You hoisted him into the air and waited until he stopped struggling. Then you lowered him back down to the ground and repositioned yourself to haul him up again and tie the rope off to a tree."

"Tell us, Sam," Jane broke in. "What do you have to say for yourself, hm? What are we going to tell your mother?"

"I have no comment at this time," was Sam's only reply.

 _Smart move_ , Sherlock thought, though he was always a little disappointed when his theatrics didn't succeed in goading suspects to immediately confess. That was that, then. _I wonder if it's too late to have lunch with John..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _But wait_ , you say. _I thought the author said this was going to be all about S &J's relationship. They've only said, like, four words to each other this whole time!_
> 
> Fear not, my readers. The last chapter, probably posted tomorrow, will make up for all of that. :)


	4. The River

"Your flight doesn't leave until the day after tomorrow, correct?" Jane had just finished taking final statements from John and Sherlock. The three of them were seated in her office.

John nodded. In his opinion, their departure couldn't come soon enough; he had no idea how he'd keep Sherlock occupied here for the next 48 hours. Not to mention that he was pretty convinced the country was trying to kill them.

"We'd like to give you something tomorrow, then, to say thanks," Jane said. "It'll take all day, so if you'd like, you can meet me here at eight in clothes you don't mind getting wet?"

"Oh, well, thank you, really, but um, we're a bit soured on outdoor adventure at the moment," John said apologetically. "Not that it wouldn't be lovely, I'm sure."

Jane laughed. "Convinced the canyon is going to murder you? Trust me, doctor, it will be perfectly safe. I hope it will show you why we take all the trouble to be here, and leave you with a... unique gift."

"Thanks, really, but solving the case has been reward enough." John smiled and shrugged. "We'll be fine, really."

Jane looked to Sherlock, but he said nothing, seemingly occupied by the empty space over her left shoulder. "Well," she said, "I'll be here anyway if you change your mind."

After bidding Jane goodnight, the two men found themselves sharing a pie at a pizza place in town. They ate in amicable silence, letting the hum of other patrons' conversations wash over them. John had finished eating and was beginning to nurse a pint when Sherlock spoke.

"You should go. Tomorrow. You don't need to look after me, you know." He took a lazy sip from his own glass.

John's brow furrowed. "First of all, yes, I do. But how could you possibly have known I was thinking about that?" he asked.

"Obvious. You began to investigate the paintings and photographs in the restaurant about half an hour ago, and you keep returning to the images that appear to depict features within the park. They're quite lovely, so of course you're wondering if there might not be something to Jane's earlier offer. After all, it's not like you'll ever come this way again."

John chuckled. "Well, I suppose that wasn't too difficult to work out after all. Still, I'd rather not abandon you; I'm not sure what I'd find when I got back."

"And why shouldn't I go as well?" Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why shouldn't I also want to admire the natural beauty of this place?"

John raised one hand in a placating gesture. "Besides the fact that you've never expressed interest in a rock that wasn't a murder weapon in your life?" Sherlock shot him a glare and sniffed. "Alright, alright, we can go," John relented. "It'll be nice. I'll let Jane know we'll see her in the morning."

Sherlock grunted his assent and both men returned their attentions to their drinks. Sherlock's mind must be multidimensional, John thought. Just when you think you've got everything sorted, something new swoops in from seemingly out of nowhere. Still, he could think of worse ways to pass the time tomorrow. Jane did say it would be unique.

\---

In the morning, Jane greeted them with long wooden hiking poles, two packs with food and water, and, strangely enough, mesh trainers with knobby rubber soles. She had apparently recalled their sizes from the boot search a few days prior. The three of them climbed into her truck and drove up the long canyon road.

At the end, they disembarked and started down a paved pathway along the river. The morning was bright and clear. The sun had not yet reached the narrow canyon floor, and the desert's morning chill meant other visitors were sparse at that hour. A bird's call in lazy, descending chromatics sounded out from the brush.

They soon reached the pavement's end. A low stone bench and a dirt pathway leading down to the river's banks greeted them there. At this point, the river disappeared up a canyon with walls so close that no dry ground could be seen on either side.

"Welcome to the Narrows," Jane said to the men. "The river here averages about knee-deep this time of year. There are some spots that might come up to your waist or more, but they're generally easy to avoid. The river bottom looks lightest where the water is the shallowest."

"Wait, sorry," John interrupted. "Do you mean to say we're going to be walking up a river here? It's a bit cold this morning, don't you think? And what about, erm, you know, flash floods?" John cast his eyes up towards the sky.

Jane's smile was gentle, though there was a bit of a twinkle in her eye. "No worries about that today. A big high pressure system moved into the area yesterday. Storms in this watershed are unlikely. As far as the cold goes, though... just wait." 

She gestured towards the canyon wall above their heads. The sun's light illuminated the rock above down to a sharp, horizontal line that showed where it was blocked by the canyon's rim. To John's surprise, the line was descending towards them at a steady, perceptible rate as the sun rose higher in the sky. It swept over their faces moments later. The sun was now visible over the rim and its kiss of warmth was startling and dramatic. John thought he'd even remove his jacket in a moment. A great grin leapt to his lips and he looked to Sherlock. Sherlock's own eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply, his features smooth and relaxed.

"There, now," Jane started. "Off you get. There aren't any side canyons, so you won't lose your way. Just remember it's harder to go upstream and easier on the way down. Radio me when you get back and I'll come pick you up."

"You mean you're not coming?" John asked. Sherlock scoffed. It prompted John to notice Jane's own attire: her uniform and leather boots. No pack or stick. Oh. Right then. "Well, of course you've got your duties, I mean." He sent a glare in Sherlock's direction.

With parting pleasantries concluded, the two men strode down the path towards the water. As they neared the edge, Sherlock inclined his head and extended his arm, indicating that John should proceed first. John stepped forward with a brief nod and waded in.

The water breached his shoes' fabric slowly. Cool but pleasant, it swirled around his ankles and splashed about with each of his steps. Its murmuring, rushing voice provided the conversation while John walked on with Sherlock in his wake. As the walls closed in and the sky diminished to a strip of blue hundreds of feet above, the voice grew in strength and produced faint, gurgling echoes.

The only other sound John could hear was his own breath, steady and strong. No traffic, people, or even aeroplanes; just splash-burble-inhale, slosh-trickle-exhale.

The river was so alive. Under his breath, John began to hum a little tune to accompany its speech. It was a song from his childhood. His dad was always one for songs, especially on their trips to the country when John was a boy. He thought of the clear creek in the forest they'd return to year after year and smiled, pleased to experience a memory he'd long since tucked away. As they walked on, his song grew bolder.

Behind him, Sherlock's mood was not nearly so cheery. He had naturally turned to observation upon entering the waterway and found he couldn't think his way around. Even simple things like determining the color of the sandstone were muddled. Reflections from the water coupled with sunspots and shadows produced colors ranging from purple to orange to gold and white. Then there was the geometry of the walls themselves: here, they were smooth and scalloped as well as steep and close together. Why the change from this to the more open, eroded V that characterized the main canyon beyond? How in the world had this maddening environment come to be?

He looked ahead at John, whose movements projected the very essence of calm and peace. Snatches of John's humming reached his ears. He made sure to stay far enough behind that he would not appear to intrude upon John's apparent reverie. He had no idea what they were doing here, together, in this place. There was no case, no goal, no destination: just the two of them, and the river. Perhaps coming along hadn't been the best idea, after all.

Still, John walked on. So Sherlock followed.

\---

Some time later, the canyon opened up slightly and a dry gravel bar appeared at the base of one wall, above the river's edge. The rocky bar was bathed in sunlight. It was a welcoming sight after all the time spent in chill water, dodging in and out of shadows. John made his way over and sat down, basking in the warmth.

Inwardly shaking aside his bewilderment, Sherlock walked over, too, and tried to choose a seat that was neither too close to John nor too far away. He cleared his throat and busied himself by removing food and water from his pack.

"Isn't this amazing," John breathed. He turned towards Sherlock with his face lit up in a brilliant smile. His eyes were soft and he seemed to nearly glow. He looked so _happy_. Somewhat taken aback, Sherlock returned the look with a hesitant smile of his own.

John laughed. "It's okay to relax a bit, you know. You can't tell me you don't find this place beautiful."

"I do," Sherlock conceded. "I'm just a bit unsure on the subject of... the point. Of it all."

"The point?" A wry grin crept onto John's face. "You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick."

Sherlock recalled exactly the last time John had spoken those words to him: in a cafe, two years ago, as Sherlock had blithely attempted to explain his deception when jumping off the roof at Bart's. His mood, and his face, instantly dropped.

"No, no, no," John shook his head and reached out to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. "The point is," he continued, "that we're two best mates, and we're here enjoying this beautiful place together. And we're about to tuck into some delicious lunch." He moved to open his own pack, rummaging around inside.

"And that's... good?" Sherlock ventured.

"Yes, that's very good. Now buck up a bit, will you, and have something to eat."

\---

After a leisurely meal spent in companionable silence, Sherlock had begun to settle a bit in his skin. Nothing was happening, but John was happy. So he could also allow himself to be happy. This actually wasn't turning out to be such a bad idea after all. He even found that his racing mind was calmed somewhat by the white noise of the rushing water.

The only thing marking the passage of time was the change in the shape of the sunspot on their gravel bar. The illuminated area had begun to shrink as the sun moved from its zenith and could no longer reach directly into the canyon's floor. Sensing that their time in the sun was about to come to an end, the men packed up their things and stood to begin the return trip downstream again.

This time, John motioned for Sherlock to take the lead. Sherlock stepped forward and cast his gaze about the canyon once more, deciding to practice observing his surroundings with less criticality and more of a nod towards aesthetics. This amused him for a few minutes, but he found this diversion was reaching its end when suddenly--

\--bang! He was flying through the air and crashing into a small eddy pool. He landed hard on his shoulder and side and was covered in water from the great splash. He immediately coiled and recovered a position crouched on his feet, whipping his head around to search out the threat. Turning, all he could find was... John. Laughing. At him!

"God, you're just like a cat," John giggled. "Like you got sprayed with a hose." He quite literally _slapped his knee_ and continued emitting gales of laughter.

Sherlock stood and straightened, adopting his most disappointed, put-out expression and serious tone of voice. "I don't see what's so funny in battering about someone you'd call a _friend_ ," he snipped.

John sobered at that. "It was--it was a joke. A bit of roughhousing, you know. As you do," he finished lamely.

"I most certainly _don't_."

"Well... sorry."

"Accepted." Sherlock looked at John expectantly. The older man ducked his head a bit and walked on ahead, chastened.

He'd only been having a bit of fun, after all. The lovely day and unusual circumstances had brought out a bit of his old army mischief, and he'd only thought Sherlock might like to play. Stupid of him, really, to think that just because they were in a new place that--

\--whoosh! Without even having a conscious thought on the matter, John had sensed fast motion behind him and reflexively lunged out of the way. A tall consulting detective, having failed to intercept his target, sailed on before plunging into a chest-deep pool just ahead. He came up spluttering.

"That's not fair!" he cried, pawing water out of his eyes.

With one look at the man currently doing his best impression of a two-year old throwing a tantrum in the bath, John lost it completely. He leaned against the canyon wall and laughed until tears began squeezing from his eyes.

"But how did you know?" Sherlock wailed.

"Reflexes!" John gasped. "Oh god, you had me going there!" More laughter. "You utter prat!"

"John," Sherlock said, serious again, with a tinge of uncertainty coloring his tone. "I think I might have hit my head." He raised his hand to the back of his skull and winced.

"Oh!" His doctor's mind instantly engaged, he walked straight on towards his friend and reached out a hand, "Here, let me see--"

And then he was in the water, splashing and coughing on a mouthful of river. Sherlock had jerked on his arm to pull him down. John regained his footing and cleared his eyes to see Sherlock's impish smile before him.

"Oh, that _was_ fun," Sherlock enthused. "Mind you, I make deceiving you something of a hobby, so adding physical pratfalls to the mix will be extremely--"

He was silenced by the flailing arms of a certain army doctor splashing him with waves of water. Then John himself was on him, and Sherlock fought back, and the two wrestled in the pool until John had Sherlock trapped in a chokehold back in the shallows once again.

"Alright, alright!" Sherlock called. "Truce!" After one last squeeze, John released his hold.

John held out his right hand. "Truce," he replied, and Sherlock raised his own hand to seal the agreement with a shake. The two men then made eye contact, and dissolved into a fit of giggles.

\---

They continued downstream, now more or less side-by-side to avoid any sneak attacks on one by the other. Quiet again, they exchanged glances and grins as they traveled onwards.

"John," Sherlock spoke up suddenly. "What would you do if I stopped taking cases?" He kept his eyes cast down to the water, as if searching the river bottom to avoid upcoming obstacles.

"You're thinking of what, retiring?" John asked, looking over in Sherlock's direction. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"No, I'm... just wondering."

"Well I'd have to come by more often, I suppose. It wouldn't do to have you terrorizing poor Mrs. Hudson once you start to get bored."

"Would you?"

Something in Sherlock's tone made John come to a stop. "What's this all about," he asked, finally. "You're sounding... serious."

"Um." Sherlock was stock still, avoiding John's gaze.

The silence stretched out as John waited for Sherlock to explain himself. Then, something in John's mind clicked.

"Sherlock," he said gently. "Do you think I only come to see you to work on the cases? Is that what you're really asking me? Would I still drop by if you weren't the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock said nothing, but managed to drag his eyes up to look his friend full in the face. His twisted lip was all the answer John needed.

"Idiot," John huffed. "All these years, and still you don't listen. I'm your friend, your very best friend, and that means I'd come by to see you if you were sulking in Baker Street or... or running an ice cream stand in Utah or parked somewhere on the bloody moon. Friends don't get rings, or plaques, but Sherlock, you are... damn it all, you're just... you're _you_. And while I do love our cases you have to know I also love..."--here he paused and swallowed, as surprised as Sherlock at the words coming out of his mouth--"...you." Another pause, and a deep breath. "I'm rubbish at this stuff, these speeches,` so don't make me say it again. Okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock replied, his voice small. Relief from John's little tirade warred with a burst of shame for having doubted him in the first place. Slowly, the relief bloomed into a vibrant happiness that began growing over all of it. This moment was one memory that would not be deleted, not ever.

"In fact, I'd come by more often if I thought you'd let me," John continued. "I just thought you were happy to have your own space."

"No! I mean," Sherlock stammered, "having you over more often would be... it would be good."

John gave him a sharp nod. "Well that's sorted, then," he stated. "And you can come 'round my place when you'd like, too, you know. Mary would love to see you more."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed.

They started off downstream once again. All was well. Each had said their piece; there was nothing more that needed to pass between them. Except...

"John," Sherlock started again. "There's something I think I should say to you."

"Yes?"

"I think you should know that I love you, too." The words came out all in a rush.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John smiled. What a mad, mad man, he thought.

They walked on. As the sun continued its march across the sky, it cast new shadows and colors upon the canyon walls. The path John and Sherlock had trod only hours before seemed wholly transformed in the changing light. Far from being a place of static, barren stone, they could see now the vitality and life that coursed through this place and altered it in a million small ways each day. Today, this place was theirs. Its light was just for them: two men, and a river.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This is the first piece of fiction I've written in over fifteen years; any comments are most appreciated. (And a great big thanks to everyone involved in _Sherlock_ the show for inspiring me to inject a bit of creativity into my life, to my friends for making fandom feel awesome, and to AO3 for such a welcoming home.)
> 
> All photos from the author's personal collection. Please do not use or repost in any way without permission.


End file.
